


‘cause god, i never felt young

by catbrains



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, But mostly fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Trauma, apparently i really like writing sleepy little!pietro, hes just so cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Pietro has a bad night.  His Papa makes it better in the morning.





	‘cause god, i never felt young

**Author's Note:**

> this is, once again, entirely self-indulgent, but - as promised - i am here bearing more little!pietro content, this time with papa clint and the other avengers also pitching in
> 
> this is what he deserves  
> none of that dying bullshit
> 
> (title is from “jackie and wilson” by hozier)
> 
> (not beta read, please let me know if there are any mistakes!)

Clint is, by now, more than used to waking up to some disturbance or another from his energetic lover.  Usually, it’s fingers prodding at his face - squishing at his cheeks or pulling his lips back until finally his eyes slide open and he’s met with that smug little grin on Pietro’s face that he can never bear to be sincerely annoyed with, though he always pretends in those first few grumpy moments before Pietro kisses his nose and rushes off with some vague demand of breakfast.  

Often, on days they’re both free - no missions, no meetings, no obligations - he awakens to the mattress shaking while Pietro fidgets and rolls around.  Those are the days he opens his eyes and doesn’t for a moment feign irritation, even playfully. Because those are the days when Pietro’s pale blue eyes are wide open and shimmering with an uncertain sort of innocence - the days when his face curls into the most precious smile when he sees that Clint’s awake and he coos “Papa!” like a little boy who has no worries.  A little boy who’s never been hurt.

 

Which is why, on a day that _should_ be a bed-shaking, bouncing-baby day, Clint is confused when he is roused to consciousness by nothing but his own body apparently deciding that it’s time for him to be awake.  He opens his eyes groggily and is met with the warm light from the mid-morning sun, peeking in through the closed blinds. The room is still mostly dark, undisturbed.

The bed beside him is empty.

“Pietro?” Clint says, sitting up slowly.  He waits for a moment, to see if Pietro will come stumbling in all sleepy or if he’ll appear in a blur of blue and silver, but neither entrance occurs.  Growing slightly more alarmed, Clint leans over to the bedside table and quickly picks up his hearing aids, putting them in and praying that when he does he’ll hear the television playing in the other room or some other such noise to indicate that Pietro is here.

Nothing.  His surroundings are so silent that for a moment he isn’t even sure his hearing aids are working, until he shifts and hears the brush of the sheets around him clear as day.

 

“Baby? You here?”

He should be.  Pietro rarely leaves without saying something first, and he very rarely leaves for any significant amount of time, since a quick trip out for some takeout breakfast or emergency groceries can be accomplished solely in the few minutes it takes him to be served and pay, with a generous few seconds considered for travel time.

An outstretched hand confirms that the sheets on Pietro’s side are cold, albeit crumpled.  He must’ve gotten up some time ago, but to do what? To go where? With _who_?

Wanda seems like the only logical choice.  Pietro is adjusting fairly well to life with the Avengers, and life in the tower, but he still likes to keep to his comfort zones - his comfort zones being himself, his twin, and Clint.  Clint can’t imagine Pietro leaving their room by himself this early in the morning, not to do anything that he couldn’t accomplish in half a second with his speed, so maybe he’s just downstairs eating breakfast with his sister?

 

Yeah.  That makes sense.  It’s probably something like that.  Nothing that deserves the heavy sort of panic that Clint is feeling in his chest - surely influenced by the fact that he was subconsciously ready to wake up today to being Papa.

In his mind, Pietro is his baby right now.  Not to be let out of his sight, especially not to be pulled away to somewhere Clint doesn’t know.  Pietro is his little boy, and he needs to be protected.

 

God.  Clint really fucking needs to know where Pietro is.

 

He drags a hand down his face as he rises from the bed, pushing the covers back haphazardly and leaving them that way.  He showered last night - aware that Pietro would almost definitely not be allowing him the time to do so today, so he’s planning on just rushing his way through washing his face and cleaning up a little before he goes down to the kitchen in his pyjamas, just to check that Pietro really is there, scoffing down some pancakes while he and Wanda gossip and giggle in Sokovian like they’re little kids speaking a secret language.

And then maybe he’ll come back up here and brood for a little while until his baby decides to join him and _be_ his baby.

 

That plan only makes it as far as him getting to the bathroom doorway, though.  It’s closed, and it’s usually never closed because Pietro likes for it to be kept open just a little overnight, with the light still on inside because otherwise it’s scary, but right now it’s closed and the light is off and he can hear a very faint pattern of shallow, hitched breathing and rapid, jerky shuffling inside.

He knows immediately that something is wrong.

Pietro always goes to the bathroom when something is wrong.  He likes the enclosed space - likes the lack of anything too soft or cosy or personal.  Although, “likes” is probably the wrong word. It just reminds him of being back in the facility - helps him focus on holding himself together just the same as he had for his sister during all those dreadful years.  Helps him focus on coldness and apathy and not giving into his pain and fear.

During his first few weeks after getting out of the hospital bed he’d been confined to, he’d spent most of his time curled up in the cold bathroom connected to his room.  

 

It had taken Clint finding him like that three times for him to finally break open and cry.  Clint had pulled him into his arms, half into his lap, and held him for as long as it took for him to stop sobbing and succumb to his insomnia-induced exhaustion.  

It had become a bit of a pattern after that.  Clint and Wanda took turns seeking Pietro out on his bad days, sometimes holding him and sometimes just soothing him until he was a little bit more okay again, and then Clint had started noticing how Pietro’s mannerisms sometimes changed during regular, day-to-day life, different from his usual aloof, bratty, but playfully sarcastic personality - how, sometimes, he’d be very quiet and do nothing but stick to his sister’s side all day, and sometimes he’d be bouncing around and babbling and almost _playing_ in a way that reminded Clint very vividly of his young children.

 

It had taken Pietro beginning to suck his thumb in the midst of a meltdown that Clint was soothing him through for Clint to finally question Wanda, and Wanda had told him what she knew.  That Pietro sometimes got like that - he’d done it while they were on the streets, and while they were in the facility, but it was only really something he succumbed to when he was very hurt or very tired.  It was only since they’d come to the Avengers tower that Pietro had also started doing it when he felt relaxed and happy. Wanda only understood it as Pietro sometimes seeming a lot younger than he really is, and requiring the coddling and attention that a toddler or small child would need.  She’d said that she never minded, that it made her feel better sometimes to be able to care for her brother like he cared for her, and she’d asked - with a certain mix of tentativeness and danger that only she was capable of - for Clint not to try and deprive her brother of his coping mechanism, strange as it is.

 

Clint had assured her that he’d never dream of it.  And, to assure her that her trust was not wasted, he’d even asked her to help him the next time Pietro...did his thing.  He wanted to be able to help, and certainly didn’t want to end up accidentally hurting his almost-mostly-boyfriend, and Wanda had surely seen his sincerity because she’d smiled very softly at him and agreed and the rest, as they say, is history.

Admittedly, Clint isn’t really sure when he’d started being Papa, let alone in the capacity that he is - in a seemingly almost equal capacity that he’s Pietro’s boyfriend.  He isn’t sure when he’d sincerely given himself over to the headspace and started buying pacifiers and teethers and rattles and a million other things from stores online and keeping them around his room, ready for whenever Pietro needs them, just the same as he keeps Pietro’s clothes and trainers and an exponentially growing ‘secret’ stash of sweets.  

 

Maybe it’s weird.  In fact, it’s almost _definitely_ weird, but Clint has been content for the majority of his life that he’s never really going to fit in with the masses, and being weird and doing weird shit seems like a tiny price to pay for being able to offer Pietro sincere happiness and comfort when the kid can’t quite manage either feeling in his regular adult headspace.

Although, Clint has a feeling that today might be a day when Pietro can’t manage them in little space either.

 

Despite the urge to go straight into the bathroom in a desperate bid to cut down the time that Pietro spends crying on his own, Clint knows that going in empty handed will only make it more difficult to get Pietro calmed down and in any stable headspace.  Quickly, he moves over to his nightstand and yanks the drawer open to fish out a pacifier at random, then half-jogs over to the chest of drawers to find Pietro’s favourite blanket - unbelievably soft, just big enough to wrap himself in, patterned with a baby blue, cloud-spattered sky.  Clint can’t remember where he got it from - can’t remember if it was even him who got it, or Wanda, or one of the others. At any rate, it’s one of Pietro’s favourite things in the world, and wrapping him up in it and rocking him for a while is almost always enough to get him relaxed, if not fast asleep, eventually.

 

Clint bundles it up in his arms and approaches the bathroom door again, making sure that his footfalls are no longer silent.  Just loud enough to be heard, loud enough to let Pietro know that he’s approaching, because knocking on the bathroom door will only make him panic.  

He surely still panics just a little when Clint very slowly and very carefully pushes the door open, but it’s not the “just a second!” kind of panic where he desperately tries to pull himself together.  It’s the shoulders-tensing, knees-pulling-up-close-to-his-chest type of panic, the type that pulls an uncharacteristic whimper from his throat and makes Clint’s stomach clench.

“Hey,” he says, as soothingly as he possibly can as he steps forward and immediately lowers himself somewhat, trying to appear entirely non-threatening.  “It’s Clint, buddy. You’re okay. You know you’re safe, baby. Nobody’s gonna hurt you here.”

 

It must’ve been a nightmare.  Pietro is curled up in a tight little ball in the furthest corner from the door, his face pressed to his knees so that all Clint can see is a tangled mess of silver-white hair.  His whole body is shaking so badly that his figure almost seems to be blurring at the edges. He’s wearing nothing but the clothes he went to bed in, a loose old t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs, and he looks so _small_ despite really - physically - being anything but.

“Hey, baby.  Can you hear me?”

Clint takes a very slow step forwards, and feels a small fizzle of relief go through him when Pietro nods just slightly - a jerky little motion.

“Clint,” Pietro says, voice hoarse and very quiet, and only then does he look up like he’s gone through some sort of revelation.  His face is painted with a mess of tears and snot and the darkness of exhaustion, but his eyes brighten when they finally focus on Clint, even as more tears fill them.  “C...Clint.”

 

“Yes.  Yeah. It’s me, baby.  It’s Clint.”

Clint drops the blanket on the floor beside Pietro and drops the pacifier on top, but Pietro doesn’t even seem to notice.  He’s too busy struggling to sit up on his knees and then diving into Clint’s arms as soon as Clint has lowered himself fully to the ground.  He lets out a grunt with the weight, already just slightly strained from getting on the floor like this so soon after waking up - he’s not so young and spry anymore - but he’s quiet after that, wrapping his arms around Pietro and holding him protectively while he shakes and hiccups his way through the fresh wave of tears.  It takes a few moments for Clint to realise that Pietro is speaking, but that’s probably because it’s almost under his breath, an incoherent blur of words that must be Sokovian.

 

Clint focuses very hard, pulling his head back so that he can try and read Pietro’s lips.  His Sokovian isn’t great - in fact, it’s not even _good_ , only decent thanks to its roots in Russian which Clint is considerably better at - but he’s tried to learn as many words as he can.  Words he might need when Pietro is too deep in a meltdown or too deep in regression to manage English.

He manages to pick out a few of them, through the rapid movement of Pietro’s pale lips.   _Scared.  Hurts.  Hands.  Cold. Metal.  Blood.  Knives. Big sister._

That’s all the indication he needs to know that Pietro’s dropped.  Those twelve minutes are his pride and joy - he’d never dream of calling Wanda his big sister unless he’s little.

“It’s okay,” Clint murmurs as he pulls Pietro close again, tucking the boy’s head against his neck and carding his fingers through that messy hair.  “You’re safe. You’re at home with me, remember? The bad people are gone, they can’t touch you here. I’ve got you. Papa’s got you.”

The shudder that runs through Pietro’s body makes Clint’s chest constrict, but it’s nothing compared to the way he feels when Pietro sobs a moment later, loud and desperate, and says “ _Papa_ ” like the universe is collapsing on top of him.

 

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Clint breathes, pressing his face to Pietro’s hair and holding him as tightly as he dares to.  “Oh, baby, you’re okay. It’s okay. Papa’s got you. Not gonna let anything hurt you. Never again. Never a-fuckin’-gain.”

Pietro doesn’t even have any sort of scandalised or teasing response to Clint swearing.  He just burrows closer and sobs again, clutching tightly at the fabric of Clint’s t-shirt, but a moment later his right hand lets go and he starts wriggling, trying to get his arm between the two of them without daring to move even a millimetre away from where their chests are pressed tight together.  

“See your stubbornness is still intact,” Clint murmurs somewhat wetly but entirely affectionately as Pietro struggles, hiccuping and pouting down at his forearm like it’s betraying him by not being entirely 2D.  “C’mon. No need. I brought your paci for you.”

Carefully, being very sure to retain the same closeness that Pietro had, Clint reaches over and picks up the pacifier, quickly cleaning it in his own mouth before offering it.  Pietro hesitates for a moment, looking unsure as tears continue to drip steadily down his cheeks, but he peeks up at Clint and Clint offers him a patient and encouraging nod, so he leans that little bit closer and takes it between his lips.

 

He’s awkward about it for the first few, long moments.  He’s tense, just holding the pacifier in his mouth and looking gradually more and more like he’s about to spit it out and start hiding and wailing again, but then it seems as if his instincts take over as his eyes slide closed and he starts suckling.

It shouldn’t be as cute as it is.  Clint has to practically hold back the urge to _coo_ as the tension slowly and very visibly melts from Pietro’s body, until he finally slots himself against Clint’s neck again and snuggles close.  He’s still trembling just slightly, and keeps sniffling and fidgeting like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, but Clint wraps him up in his arms again, pulls him closer until Pietro’s fully in his lap, and then he begins to rock gently from side to side.

“Good boy,” he murmurs as Pietro continues to relax, running a gentle hand over the lean muscles of his back until his palm is right where he can feel the kid’s heartbeat - soothing, even if it’s even more rapid than it usually is.

 

It’s not the best rhythm to hum a lullaby to, but he still manages.  

His voice is still too scratchy for it to be all too pretty, and he’s a little too preoccupied to do anything but mumble over the words and focus on the soothing melody, but he thinks he’s doing an okay job - at least, until Pietro starts whimpering.  He stops immediately, fearing that he’s triggered the kid somehow, and pulls back just a little, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” he soothes quickly, darting down to press a kiss to Pietro’s hair.  “What’s wrong? You don’t like that one?”

Pietro shakes his head, wriggling unhappily in Clint’s lap and letting out another pointed whimper.  “S’ee...s’eep.”

 

Clint likes to think that he’s pretty good at working out what Pietro means - whether he’s in his regular headspace and trying to get across a word or phrase that he doesn’t know in English, or he’s little and can only construct short, clumsy sentences, even in his native Sokovian.  They’re used to each other by now - practically have their own game of charades for certain objects and people and places, which also helps when Clint doesn’t have his hearing aids or Pietro is nonverbal - but there are still times when they both struggle.

“You’re tired?” Clint guesses, rubbing Pietro’s back soothingly.  “You want to go to sleep?”

It seems like the most obvious answer, given the situation.  Pietro must be exhausted, and it would make sense for him to start getting agitated like this when he’s exhausted.  But the mere suggestion seems to offend him, and he wriggles more pointedly, forcing Clint to tighten his grip on the kid lest he end up hurting himself.

“Okay, okay, not tired!” Clint nods his understanding, trying to calm Pietro, and only then does it click.  Pietro had a nightmare, or a flashback of some sort, and - to him - sleep means not being with Papa, even if Clint stays with him the whole time.  Pietro’s still alone and vulnerable in his own mind.

 

“You don’t want to go to sleep?”

Finally, blessedly, Pietro relaxes, letting out a miserable little hiccup.  He seems relieved that his papa understands, at least, and even gives a small, seemingly shy nod, which earns him a gentle smile from Clint.

“Yeah, I know how that feels.”  He releases one gentle arm from around Pietro in order to card his fingers through the kid’s messy hair, pushing it carefully out of his face and doing his best not to catch any of the tangles.  “You and I both know you’re gonna need at least a good nap at some point, but we’ll leave it for now, alright? I won’t make you sleep. Pinkie swear.”

He moves his hand back from Pietro’s head to hold out his pinkie, giving Pietro one of the Very Serious looks he usually reserves for in the field.  It has the desired effect, and Pietro lights up with a delighted - albeit still timid - smile, and links his pinkie clumsily with Clint’s.

“P’omise,” he mumbles, then softly repeats himself in Sokovian like he’s comparing the two words.

 

Clint smiles down at him, taking a moment just to look over his boy - his tangled hair and tired eyes and scruff of stubble and the way his pacifier, a pale lilac in colour with a cute little moon and stars on the face, bobs steadily in his mouth.  He feels affection burn in his chest, making him want to do nothing but sit here and hold Pietro for as long as Pietro can bear to sit still, but it has to be late morning by now, and he knows that risking Pietro being tired-cranky is nothing compared to risking him being hungry-cranky.

“Alright,” Clint says, sitting up a little and adjusting Pietro in his lap.  “What do you say we both get all ready, and then we go downstairs for some breakfast? That sound good?”

He’s not exactly expecting innocent excitement and enthusiasm while Pietro’s regressed like he currently is.  It seems like Pietro’s regressed too far to be particularly excitable anyway - he’s usually quieter and more restless than energetic when he’s any younger than about five, and Clint, if he had to guess, would put him at about two right now.  Three at most, but it’s more than likely that he’s going to end up slipping even lower.

 

Timidly, Pietro pulls his pacifier from his mouth and holds it in a tight fist, staring down at it.  

“ _Be a big boy_?” he asks timidly in Sokovian, expression nervous, and it takes Clint a moment to translate the words and another to understand exactly what they mean.

Pietro is asking if it’s okay for him to be little, or if he has to act like a big boy - most likely by just forcing himself out of headspace.  Clint quickly shakes his head.

“No.  No, buddy.  You don’t have to be a big boy.  You can be my little boy if you need to.  You know nobody’ll be mean to you for it. They’ve all seen you before, haven’t they?”

They have.  Pietro sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it the first time - he’d regressed in the gym while he and Cap were in there alone, and his meltdown had been enough to overwhelm Steve.  After, by some miracle, managing to get Pietro quiet and mostly calm, he’d picked him up and delivered him to Clint, who had given some vague and frantic non-explanation before quickly rushing off to the safety of his room to get Pietro _actually_ calmed down.

 

Pietro had been mortified as soon as he ‘came back’, convinced that he would be hurt or shunned and so unwilling to believe any different that it had taken telling the others the truth, flanked by a very supportive and very serious Clint and Wanda, to actually convince him that they don’t mind.  Coping mechanisms are coping mechanisms, after all, and, of the ones that the other Avengers have relied heavily upon in the past, this is one of the least harmful. None of them have really had the chance to do any ‘babysitting’ just yet - mostly because it’s very rare that both Clint and Wanda are away at the same time - but they’ve had plenty of interactions with Pietro at a variety of ages.

 

Pietro’s still getting used to the idea that he doesn’t have to be scared of them, but he’s okay with most of them.  He likes Natasha and Thor, and he likes Steve. He does _not_ like Bucky, and he doesn’t like Tony - though that seems to be rooted in the same reasons he dislikes Tony in his regular headspace.  He always gets anxious around the man when he’s little, but can never seem to understand why.

The biggest step made in the Tony-Pietro relations in general had been a couple weeks back, when tentatively-little Pietro had dropped his stuffie off the side of the couch he’d been dozing on and had, half asleep, allowed Tony to carefully tuck the stuffed cheetah back into his arms.

Tony had all but sprinted up to Clint, who had been making popcorn in the next room, to inform him with a seemingly entirely sincere grin on his face.

Clint is still adamant not to push Pietro any farther than he independently expresses the will to go, in _any_ headspace, but it had been hard not to wish then that things could just be easy.

 

Things are never easy, though, and Clint would never genuinely expect Pietro to be an exception.  Especially when Clint himself is so complicated.

 

“So, how ‘bout it? You wanna go down and get some pancakes?”

Apparently, Pietro is little enough that pancakes are an exciting offer rather than a requirement to be demanded incessantly - which is probably an indication that he shouldn’t really _have_ them since he usually does better with non-solid foods when he’s regressed particularly far, but Clint sees no harm in a small treat.  Especially not as Pietro stumbles over his own tongue for a moment, lost in his excitement, before he manages to get out the Sokovian word for ‘pancake’, or something close enough for Clint to just about understand, and Clint can’t resist but to press a kiss to his forehead.

“That’s right, good boy! You think pancakes’ll make you less shy?”

Pietro nods very enthusiastically.  

“Good! Gotta get you ready first, though.  Can you sit up for a second while Papa gets a towel to clean you up?”

 

It takes a moment for Pietro to understand, but when he does he lets out an anxious little whimper.  Clint isn’t quite sure what to do - he can’t exactly pick Pietro up and hold him when he’s gonna need his hands, and he can’t sit Pietro up on the vanity because putting the restless little nightmare anywhere where he could fidget himself into harm's way is a big no-no.

It’s only after looking around, searching for some kind of answer, that Clint remembers the blanket.  He leans over to pick it up, bundling it up into something that can he held and cuddled, and Pietro’s tugging at it before Clint can even offer it, babbling the Sokovian equivalent of “blankie” - an adorable word which is all too familiar.  Clint lets him take it, ignoring the lack of manners - scolding the kid right now would only send him spiralling again, no matter how gently it was done - and ruffling his hair before he grunts and pulls himself to his feet.

 

He searches through the cupboards for a moment before he emerges with a soft flannel, which he then wets with warm water before kneeling back down opposite Pietro, who has apparently been amusing himself by wrapping his body around his rolled-up blanket like it’s a tree.  He’s sat on his bum with his long legs pulled up, linked at the ankles around his blanket with his arms tucked around it in the same manner.

“Are you a koala?” Clint asks, amused, as he leans over to start wiping gently at the dried tears and other mess on Pietro’s face.  Pietro scrunches his face up, wrinkling his nose and gnawing on his pacifier which he’d put back in at some point, but he doesn’t seem genuinely distressed, and allows Clint to finish the job with only a bit of wriggling and whining which is easily pacified with some murmurs of praise and a few soft kisses.

 

Clint rises from the floor with a grunt and tosses the wet washcloth into the sink to be dealt with later, before turning back to Pietro and reaching his arms out.

“C’mon, buddy.  Time to get dressed.”

He smiles softly as the kid struggles clumsily to his feet, bringing his blanket with him, and immediately holds his own hand out so that Clint can take it.  When he’s younger like this, he always has to be touching whoever’s looking after him, by cuddling or holding hands or, ideally, being picked up and carried, but Clint’s still feeling a little too groggy and stiff for that.

It’s his day off, after all.  He’ll wait until Pietro asks for it outright, if he decides to, but for now they’re apparently both content with their joined hands as Clint leads his boy back into the bedroom and tells him to sit down on the bed while he goes rooting through the wardrobe.

 

Pietro doesn’t really have any actual _clothes_ to wear while he’s little - just some of his softer t-shirts and joggers, if they really have to go out or do something while the kid’s drifting somewhere near headspace.  There’s no such obligation today, though, so Clint’s options are open to the considerably wider - and much more eagerly accepted - selection of pyjamas. Some of them are regular pyjamas in a variety of colours, some are more subtly cutesy - with characters and logos on them, including a pair of ‘Hawkeye’ branded trousers patterned with bows and arrows - and some are custom-made from shops online, snap-crotch onesies and rompers in pastel-coloured fabric, all made to properly fit Pietro and make him feel small.  

 

Those are the only category of pyjamas that sometimes aren’t so eagerly accepted - whenever Pietro’s shame gets in the way, makes him insecure about wanting to regress so far or makes him disgusted with himself for regressing at all.  Whenever he manages to get past that roadblock, though, Clint absolutely loves the sight of him dressed up like that.

Speaking of roadblocks, though - there’s another that has to be crossed even before they get to clothes.

Clint bites his lip and picks out a snap-crotch onesie, pale blue in colour and patterned with little white bolts of lightning, and a pair of soft, grey jersey shorts.  He places them both down on top of the dresser, then opens a drawer to reveal several different packs of diapers and pull-ups. Immediately, he hears the soft noise of distress that Pietro lets out, knowing exactly what the drawer contains.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Clint soothes, immediately walking away from the open drawer to sit on the bed and pull the boy, who once again looks close to tears, into his arms.  Pietro lets out another distinctly unhappy noise, hiccuping slightly as he nuzzles into Clint’s neck. “Shh. C’mon, you know it’s alright. It’s no big deal. Little boys need ‘em, hm? No shame in that.”

Getting Pietro into diapers or pull-ups for the first time after he drops is always difficult.  They’re another thing that he’d explicitly told Clint that he wants, that he _likes_ \- because they take another element of control and worry away, make him feel even smaller - but it’s just another thing that’s difficult for him at first.  

Clint knows that he needs them, anyway.  In the past, when Pietro had kicked up too much of a fuss and stomped his feet and sobbed and yelled, Clint had agreed that he didn’t have to wear them if he really didn’t want to, but it always resulted in accidents, which only ever resulted in Pietro even more upset - and entirely ashamed, if anybody else had happened to be around.

 

“I just want you to be comfortable, buddy.  And I know it’s hard for you to control things like this.  ‘Specially when you’re small, right?”

Clint rubs his hand up Pietro’s back and smiles softly when the kid nods miserably.  “Exactly. So this means you don’t have to worry. You can forget all about it and let Papa remember to change you.  Doesn’t that sound way better than being worried about having an accident?”

Again, slowly and definitely reluctantly, Pietro nods, and Clint knows he’s pouting.  

“So, you gonna let me put you in a nice diaper? Dress you up all cosy like my little baby boy?” Clint leans back a little and smiles gently down at Pietro.  His smile widens when he sees the way Pietro’s pale cheeks flush pink, the way he can’t quite help but smile back but still tries to hide himself against Clint’s chest, mumbling a shy, “ _Yes, Papa_ ,” in Sokovian.  Clint wraps his arms around him and squeezes him - tickles his ribs briefly to make him squirm and fail to suppress a giggle that completely contrasts with the pouty front he’s still trying to put on, before finally pulling back and carefully laying Pietro down on his back on the bed.

 

He stands up and walks back over to the open drawer, kneeling down to look over the options and decide on two to offer.  Pietro can get overwhelmed with too many decisions.

“Alright,” he says.  “Farm animals or space?”

He knows the robot ones are a no-go.  He should probably just throw them out.  Animals and space are both safe bets, though - they’re usually two of Pietro’s favourites, because space is cool and farms remind him of Clint.  The hesitation coming from the bed proves that Pietro has something else in mind, however, and Clint waits patiently until Pietro very quietly mumbles, “Winnie.”

The Winnie the Pooh diapers are adorable and probably Clint’s favourite, patterned around the hips with Winnie and Tigger and Eeyore and Piglet and grass and flowers, though Pietro will usually only allow them when he’s either half-asleep while Clint’s changing him or too little to even really understand.  It’s the one design that’s distinctly babyish, and Clint can’t help but feel proud that Pietro’s asking for it.

 

“Then Winnie you shall have,” he says with a playfully dramatic lilt, pulling one of the diapers out of the packet and pushing the drawer shut before walking back over to the bed, where Pietro has surprisingly done very little wriggling.  He’s still on his back, sucking on his pacifier and holding his blankie to his chest and fidgeting with his legs, and the smile that Clint gives him is apparently warm and daddy-ish enough that he can practically _see_ Pietro sink deeper into regression, shifting like the feeling overwhelms him a little.

“My baby boy,” Clint can’t help but murmur, gently rubbing Pietro’s strong thigh to soothe him.  “You’re so sweet, aren’t you? You know I love you? So, so much.”

As he speaks, he hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of Pietro’s underwear and pulls the briefs down his legs, throwing them vaguely in the direction of the laundry basket - and, of course, landing them perfectly inside.  He makes quick work of getting the diaper beneath Pietro’s bum and even quicker work of getting him powdered and comfortably taped up, finishing up before Pietro’s even had a chance to start whimpering, which is quite an achievement.

 

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Clint quirks an eyebrow at Pietro and gives him a crooked smile when the kid somehow manages to pout despite the pacifier still very firmly in his mouth.  “Alright, alright. Clothes now, real quick, then food. I promise.”

He quickly retrieves the clothes and sits Pietro up so that he can pull his t-shirt off and pull the onesie down over his head, with some manoeuvring around the blankie that Pietro is refusing to let go of.  He lays him down again in order to clip it at the crotch, and then he’s pulling the shorts up Pietro’s long legs. It’s entirely intentional that the shorts almost make the onesie look like a regular t-shirt - allowing Pietro the comfort of not being insecure at the same time as wearing something specifically appropriate for his headspace.  The shorts also disguise the diaper just a little - a detail that Clint is sure will be appreciated, even if it’s really no secret to the other Avengers that Pietro wears them.

 

“Alright, all done.  You look adorable.” Pietro’s cheeks redden and his brows furrow, only making him look cuter, but Clint relents.  “And very handsome. D’you think Papa needs to get dressed, or are we gonna hit tantrum territory if you have to go through another five pancakeless minutes?”

“Pancake,” Pietro urges, just a hint of the usual ‘give me what I want and give it to me _now_ ’ attitude coming through.  

The kid’s lucky he’s little enough to get away with it.

“Alright, alright,” Clint replies, trying and failing not to grin lest Pietro be encouraged in his innocent brattiness, but hiding it by rising again and turning to the dresser.  “ _One_ more thing.  Can’t let your hair get too tangled.  God forbid.”

 

Pietro’s hair is cropped short at the back and sides now, cut at regular intervals since he had moved into the tower, but he still likes it long on top and his curls are a nightmare to keep up with.

Clint leans over to retrieve the hairbrush from atop the dresser, and makes quick work of catching Pietro where the boy had been attempting to turn himself over and crawl his way to freedom.

“Hey, hey, none of that.  Renegade little boys don’t get pancakes.”

A complete lie.  Pietro could crawl up to just about anyone in the living quarters looking like this and be given practically anything he asked for.  Thankfully, he’s not at any age where he _knows_ that though, so he stays mostly - reluctantly - still as Clint lifts him into a sitting position and begins carefully brushing the knots out of his messy hair, arranging those sweet curls and observing - as always - the few shocks of dark brown still within that unnatural silvery-white.  

 

Even as his hair is growing out, the silver keeps coming through predominantly, almost entirely overtaking the brown.  It’s clear his hair will never be normal again, never again like his sister’s, but Wanda’s been on about getting her hair dyed anyway, so maybe Pietro can stop gazing at her deep brown curls with that faraway look he always wears when he’s letting himself get lost in the darkness of his mile-a-minute thoughts.

Absently, Clint wonders if Wanda looks like the twins’ mother, and then decides that that’s _not_ something he wants to make himself sad thinking about right now.

Wanda’s always ‘ _big sister_ ’, after all.  Never mommy or mama, as far as Clint knows.  The thought of Pietro saying either is cute, though.

 

“You think Wanda’s downstairs getting breakfast?” Clint asks, pulling the brush back through Pietro’s hair to pull the longer strands out of his face, before reaching the ends and letting the hair flop back.  Pietro giggles, scrunching his nose up, and babbles something in a nonsensical mix of English and Sokovian that strongly implies that he has slipped deeper into regression, as Clint thought he would.

Smiling, Clint sets the hairbrush down on the sheets and cards his fingers through Pietro’s hair, continuing a conversation as if Pietro is speaking perfect sense.  Even if the little bastard never seems to _stop_ speaking usually, Clint will never miss an opportunity to encourage him to be more confident and expressive in little space.

 

 _Expressiveness_ doesn’t seem to be all too much of an issue right now, though, because Clint recognises the exact moment that Pietro loses patience with talking and decides that Clint has to _know_ that his pancakes are _unbearably_ long overdue.  He doesn’t try to start crawling away this time, however.  He just lets out the most dramatic of whimpery whines and wriggles in place, looking up at Clint like a puppy - which is wildly unfair, because Clint is weak to puppies and he’s weak to Pietro and what else is he meant to do but immediately relent to those hands that reach up to him in a clear request.

“Oh, c’mere, buddy.”  Clint hoists Pietro up easily with two hands beneath his armpits, and just as easily adjusts the kid to be settled comfortably on his hip, supported by a hand under his bum and his legs wrapped securely around Clint’s waist.  There was a time when such a position was difficult - particularly with Pietro being just that little bit taller - but now it’s nothing but natural for Pietro to immediately settle down, tucking his head against Clint’s neck and completely failing to hide a yawn.  For a moment, he wriggles in clear discontent that Clint doesn’t quite understand, until he drops his blankie and wraps his arms around Clint’s shoulders instead.

 

Clint fails just as spectacularly to hide the way he smiles down at his boy with all the adoration in the world, pressing a long kiss to those soft curls as he finally makes his way out of his quarters and into the common area, heedless of the fact that he’s dressed in only a ratty band shirt and a pair of patterned boxers, his hair surely looking like - as Pietro loves to say - a _bird’s nest_.

Hopefully everyone will be too distracted by Pietro being cute to roast him - because, despite the hour now being considerably nearer to noon than dawn, the kitchen seems to be well-populated.  Nat is perched cross-legged on the counter top with a cup of tea in-hand as Clint walks in, and she looks up from her conversation with Sam just to light up when she lays eyes on Pietro.

Of course, ‘light up’, in Nat’s case, meaning allowing the corners of her lips to quirk up almost imperceptibly, but Clint knows her more than well enough to know exactly how much it means.

 

“Good morning,” she says, mostly to Clint, then tilts her head as she tries to catch a still-hiding Pietro’s attention.  A couple of the few others turn around, noticing the new company, and Clint doesn’t miss the way Tony quickly picks up his mug of coffee and disappears.

“Hey.  You not gonna say hi to Nat and the others, baby?” Clint prompts, bouncing Pietro just a little, and a few vague coos ripple around the room as Pietro lifts his head sleepily and rubs clumsily at his eyes.  It takes him a few moments to identify where exactly in the room Natasha is, tensing as he takes in each person looking at him, but he relaxes as soon as he sees her, giving her a smile sweet enough to rot teeth.

“‘Ta,” he mumbles, his usual version of ‘Natasha’ while he’s particularly small, and Natasha practically melts, the corners of her lips tugging up even further.  She puts her mug down and hops down from the counter to slowly approach, measuring her pace as she very carefully gauges whether everything is okay or not, before she finally reaches out and gently traces the apple of Pietro’s pale cheek.

 

Clint’s sure he’s the only person in the room who notices the way her hand trembles just the slightest bit when Pietro leans into her palm.  She moves her hand away quickly, just barely not quick enough to make Pietro feel like he’s done something wrong, and gives the boy another of her ‘just-for-little-ones’ smiles before she steps back.

“Hey, I think your Papa should probably get a bib on you real quick,” she says, glancing up to meet Clint’s eyes and gives _him_ one of her ‘just-for-Clint’ smiles.  “I think those pancakes are almost done.”

Clint blinks in confusion, for the first time noticing the smell of cooking in the air.  “Pancakes?”

“Yes.”  It’s Wanda who answers him, stood beside the stovetop where Steve is - Steve fully dressed in trousers and a shirt, while Wanda is wearing a pair of red flannel shorts and a loose tank top.  “Pietro has been making his desire very clear. _Chocolate chips and strawberry_.”

The affection in her voice grows as she dips into Sokovian, surely imitating how Pietro had been pestering her with his thoughts.

 

Pietro, at the sound of his sister’s voice, begins moving restlessly again, letting out a string of urgent, impatient little noises, and Clint quickly relents and sets him down carefully.  His hands hover for a few long moments, unsure if Pietro is able to stand and walk, but the boy rushes off with the clumsy run of a toddler, stopping at his sister’s side and grinning as she wraps him up in a hug and coos at him in their native tongue, apparently complimenting his outfit.  Whatever she’s saying, it makes Pietro shy enough to cling to her, hunching down enough that he can hide his face against her neck like he’d done with Clint. Clint smiles at the pair of them, slotting together - as always - like puzzle pieces.

The scene is interrupted, however, by Cap turning and very carefully touching Pietro’s shoulder, just enough to get his attention.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, in the distinct voice he uses for children.  It’s still just a little bit terse, just a little bit Cap, because this is still _Pietro_ , but it’s nothing compared to how Steve usually talks to the kid.  “You still want strawberries on top of your pancakes? Or banana?”

 

Wanda glances down, nudging her brother to try and get a response, but he’s apparently not interested.  He wriggles out of her arms and takes her hand quickly, leading her over to the now-empty dining table so that they can sit side by side.  Wanda gives Steve an apologetic look, but Clint just shakes his head before glancing to Steve.

“He’ll have both.  You know what he’s like.”

While Wanda continues to spoil Pietro with affection, surely aware of the rough night he’d had thanks to their link, Clint feels content to take his eyes off of his boy and help himself to some of the coffee in the machine.

“That’s fresh,” Steve comments, beginning to plate up the pancakes and adorn them with fresh fruit.  “Tony just brewed it.”

Clint hums his understanding, though he’d have downed it just as eagerly regardless.  He fills a mug and takes his first sip, pauses, then gulps down half the mug.

“Y’know,” he says, “I could’ve made the pancakes.  ‘S’not like you have to be here cooking for him.”

 

Humming, Steve picks up a bottle of chocolate syrup - some healthy, no-sugar brand - and draws a smiley face on top of the pancakes, around the neatly-placed fruit.

“I know.  But you always make them with too much sugar.  You’ll ruin the boy’s teeth.”

Giving Clint what can only be defined as a Look, Steve picks up the plate and delivers it to the table where Pietro is curled up in his seat, pressed right up against Wanda’s side, but he perks up considerably at the sight of his food, and then lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees the fruit and smiley face.

Steve smiles too, even ruffles the kid’s hair, and sits down opposite the twins to survey as Wanda picks up the fork and sets about feeding Pietro.

That’s one thing about her weird mind powers, or maybe just the weird twin powers that the two seem to have.  Wanda almost always knows exactly what Pietro wants or needs, and can provide it in a heartbeat without even having to ask.

 

Clint’s still working on it, but at least he doesn’t feel quite as insecure watching the two of them as he once did.

“What about this scene could possibly be making you pull a face like that?”

 _Quite_ as insecure.

Clint lets his lips pull into a crooked smile, eyes still trained on Pietro even as he wraps his arm around Nat’s shoulders as she settles against the counter beside him, sipping on a fresh cup of herbal tea.

“‘S’probably pointless to dwell on,” he says quietly, quietly enough that Steve or Wanda won’t be able to overhear, “But every time I see them like this...I imagine them on the streets.  In their cells in Sokovia. Doing...the same thing, except with nothing. I think about Pietro regressing with nothing but the dirty clothes on his back, in some alleyway or locked in some concrete room between torture sessions, and I get nauseous.  I get so angry.”

 

Gently, Natasha hums.  Quiet understanding.  Just like always.  “Bathroom again?”

Clint swallows and nods slowly.  “He barely slept and I had no idea.  He was a mess when I finally found him.  I can’t fucking... _stomach_ the thought of someone looking him in the face when he looks like that and deciding to hurt him again.”

His hands are shaking, he realises.  He’s still staring straight ahead but he’s not really seeing anything anymore, except vague flashes of memory - the Pietro he’d met that first day outside of the facility, the way he’d fallen to the ground just a short time later with a half dozen bullets that were meant for Clint, the way he’d trembled the first time they kissed, the way his voice had sounded the first time he’d whispered ‘Papa’ when he was entirely sure that Clint was asleep.

“Well, you don’t have to.”

Clint blinks back to reality to notice that his arm isn’t around Natasha anymore, but their fingers are linked, hands hanging between them.

“He’s with you now.”

 

Clint is about to speak, about to perhaps express that sometimes he isn’t sure that’s a good thing, sometimes he’s so sure that he’s going to break Pietro into tiny little pieces, but the sound of Wanda bursting into quiet giggles catches his attention.  He looks to the table to see the pancakes half-eaten and Pietro slumped half-asleep in Steve’s arms, whining and mumbling and fidgeting weakly as the older man wipes gently at the mess of chocolate syrup all over that pale face. Wanda looks utterly enamoured, but also highly amused.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve is murmuring gently.  “I know you’re tired. C’mon, you’re all clean now. How about you take a nap with your Papa? Does that sound nice?”

He glances up and meets Clint’s eyes with a soft smile, and in the same moment Pietro reaches out and makes clumsy, vague grabby hands in Clint’s direction.  

“Papa,” he mumbles, and Clint is scooping him up a moment later, the reassuring warmth of Natasha’s hand a ghost against his skin, steadying his heart as he presses a kiss to Pietro’s temple.

 

“You wanna go to sleep, baby boy?” he whispers, and there’s not an ounce of the fear from earlier when Pietro nods, tucking himself against Clint’s neck and clinging tightly to the collar of his shirt like there’s some risk of them getting separated.

“ _Papa stay,_ ” he whispers in clumsy Sokovian, making Wanda’s smile falter into something much sadder-looking.  Steve notices in the same instant that Clint does, and he walks over from where he’d been cleaning off the plate to lean in and say something softly to her before they both disappear off in the direction of the lounge, softly cooing their goodbyes and sleep wells to Pietro, who already seems to be far too close to sleep to offer any sort of response.

 

“Told you you were gonna need a nap,” Clint whispers, smiling down at the side of Pietro’s head just barely visible to him as he gently adjusts him on his hip and makes his way back up towards the rooms.  “Didn’t expect you to conk out this early, though. Where’s all that energy go when you’re small, huh? You just saving it all up so you can bounce off the walls with even more vigour when you’re big again?”

The only answer he gets is a stretch of silence that proves that Pietro has succumbed to sleep.  Not for long, of course - he sleeps odd times and odd hours, usually just short naps whenever he feels he needs them - but Clint’s gotten used to it and adapted just the same as he has with everything else about Pietro and their relationship, just the same as Pietro has done for him.  He just hopes that Pietro might sleep for a little longer this time, because the kid definitely needs it - although it’s probably inevitable that he’ll wake up in need of a change in a little while, or he’ll want a bottle, or he’ll have another nightmare that’ll leave him terrified.

 

It doesn’t matter, though.  Clint will deal with any and all of it.  

He pushes open the door to Pietro’s room, which is nowadays used almost exclusively when he’s little or when he and Clint just need some time apart, and makes his way to the unmade bed.  The sheets are soft and littered with stuffies, proving that Pietro was either little the last time he’d slept in here a week or so ago or he was content enough to not feel the need to hide every piece of evidence of his little space in shame or self-hatred.  Both options help in settling Clint’s heart just the same as Pietro snuggling into him had, and he very gently lays Pietro down on the bed to watch how he immediately settles down against the pillows. One hand brings his thumb up to his mouth to suckle on while the other reaches out blindly, still almost entirely asleep, to try and find Clint.

“When and _where_ did you lose your paci?” he asks in a whisper, shaking his head as he climbs into bed beside Pietro.  “You’re a nightmare.”

 

As if he heard, Pietro merely lets out the most adorable sleepy baby noise that Clint has ever heard in his life and nuzzles sweetly into Clint’s neck, still suckling on his thumb.

“God dammit,” Clint whispers bitterly.  “You’re adorable.”

He lets his head rest against the pillows as he settles Pietro carefully in his arms, mindful of what might make him feel trapped, and then he just listens to the soft sound of his boy’s breathing, mixed in with the occasional infantile noise of contentment.  He could probably sleep too, if he wanted to, but last night has made him anxious and the thought of Pietro waking up in distress alone again is more than enough to motivate him to keep his eyes open, watching every tiny movement.

Still, despite his anxiety and desire to protect Pietro from everything - including his own mind - he feels a sense of peace fill him in the silent room.  Everything that the two of them have ever faced, together or apart, doesn’t matter like this. Nightmares can be soothed away with cuddles and kisses and cooing, all the very real monsters and evil people are just bogeymen, Clint can just protect and Pietro can be protected.  There are no bullets here.

 

And when Pietro wakes up two hours later, with no tears and no whimpering, Clint greets him with a smile and half a dozen kisses all over his face and then tickles him until Pietro’s laughing in a way that he usually doesn’t let anyone hear.  

And everything sort of feels like it’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed!  
> please leave a comment if you did, it would really mean a lot! ♡  
> and let me know if you wanna see more little!pietro stuff, especially if you have any particular ideas (for any iteration of pietro) that you’d be interested in seeing~


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